Page 107 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

Chapter twenty-nine

The Assembly

Florence

Florence stood at the entrance of St Cecilia's Hall and reminded herself to breathe.

The building blazed with light. Crystal chandeliers sparkled through the tall windows. Carriages lined the street, disgorging Scotland's elite in silks and diamonds and immaculate evening dress.

She had dressed carefully. Not as the ash-faced peasant who'd fled across England. Not as the modest widow Mrs Collins. Tonight, she was Lady Florence, sister to the Marquess of Ashworth, in a gown of deep emerald silk that made her eyes look almost feline.

Madam Tansley, hidden in plain sight.

"Ready?" Brennan murmured beside her. He looked profoundly uncomfortable in his borrowed evening clothes, his massive frame straining the seams of his coat.

"No." She smoothed her skirts. "Let's go."

They entered the grand foyer, and Florence began cataloguing faces.

There: Viscount and Viscountess Rochford in a cluster of aristocrats, Adeline resplendent in pale blue, her hand resting on her husband's arm. It was hard to believe now that she'd once flinched from any touch, or that Marshall had begun as one of Florence's male escorts before duty called him back to his title. The gentle patience with which he'd coaxed his wife through her terror had become something of a legend. Psychologists now invited them to speak at conferences, eager to understand how love had accomplished what medicine could not. Adeline caught Florence's eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

There: Dahlia and Mr Lockwood near the refreshment table, his fingers moving in subtle signs as he communicated something to his wife. Dahlia's reply was equally discreet, her face betraying nothing. Florence had rescued her years ago; Dahlia had repaid the debt by becoming one of her cleverest operatives. Then her uncle had discovered her and married her off to a Highland scientist sight unseen. Florence had prepared for disaster. Instead, Dahlia found kindness and brilliance wrapped in silence. Mr Lockwood had needed time to see past her history, but he'd got there eventually, faster than the détente between her imperious cat and his besotted hound, though that was admittedly a low bar.

There: Sylvia Raines in a burgundy gown, positioned near the side entrance where the witnesses would emerge when the time came. Albert stood beside her, one hand resting on his wife's waist. He'd been a disgraced London physician when he'd stumbled into Sylvia's operation, horrified to find his inherited manor full of fallen women and one stubborn madam. Weeks of conflict had become partnership. Partnership had become love. Now the manor operated as a respectable health retreat, the perfect facade for a safehouse, and the two of them were inseparable.

There: Julian Cassidy in his wheeled chair near the stage entrance, his wife, Clair, luminous beside him. He would perform tonight. The most celebrated pianist in Britain, drawing a crowd that even Carrick couldn't resist. Clair had worked for Florence once. Sent to help the maestro recover his male prowess after a tragic accident. She'd ended up rehabilitating far more than his body. The grumpy, impossible man had melted under her patience and eternal sunshine. Now she managed his career, his temperament, and other fully restored capacities, if the proprietary curve of his hand on her waist was any indication.

And there…

Florence's stomach dropped.

Lord Carrick stood near the front of the hall, resplendent in black evening dress, a glass of champagne in his hand. He was laughing at something, his handsome face alight with charm, every inch the benevolent nobleman.

Behind him, half a step back, stood Matthew.

Florence barely recognised him. The rough fighter was gone. In his place stood a man in an impeccably tailored suit, dark hair pulled back and tied with a black ribbon, jaw clean shaven. He looked like a gentleman. A dangerous one, but a gentleman, nonetheless.

Their eyes met across the crowded hall.

His face remained neutral. No flicker of recognition. No warmth.

But she saw his hand twitch at his side. Saw his shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly beneath the fine wool of his coat.

Her heart fluttered in her chest.

The mingling seemed endless.

Florence made small talk with countesses and baronets. Complimented gowns. Discussed the unseasonably warm weather. All the while, she tracked Carrick's movements through the room, watched Matthew shadow him like a well-trained hound.

Five weeks. Five weeks of coded messages passed through Brennan. Five weeks of gathering allies, building her trap, waiting for this night.

She'd received his last message three days ago: Ready. The ledger is secure. Hostages located. Warehouse in Leith. Twelve guards, rotating shifts.

Tonight, it all came together.

Finally, she found her moment.

Carrick had stopped to speak with a railway commissioner, leaving Matthew standing alone near a marble pillar. Florence approached as though by accident, pausing beside him to examine a painting on the wall.